


Hearing Distance

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Buffy the Vampire Slayer References, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Magical Realism, Psychic Abilities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:18:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8455129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: A mashup of BBC Sherlock and Buffy the Vampire Slayer S3E18 "Earshot".John can suddenly hear people's thoughts."I observe and draw conclusions based on those observations. John can read minds."Edit: This fic is now complete.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to ShamelessMash, DeliciousSpiral, and MissDavisWrites for their beta assistance!
> 
> This work is complete; I will post a chapter every week.
> 
> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

“Sherlock? You here?”

Silence resonated back to John from the empty flat. Out then, probably on a case. John remembered with a bit of nostalgia the days when Sherlock would burst into the surgery to pull him along to some crime scene. Now he was back, and John was back, after months of grief and anger and gradual but unspoken forgiveness. He and Sherlock went on cases still, but Sherlock was more respectful now of John’s work. In some ways John was grateful for that; in other ways he missed it tremendously.

A quick scan of the flat confirmed that Sherlock was out. John checked his phone and saw that a text had come in while he was on the Tube.

_Out on a case for Dimmock. Shouldn’t be long, it’s only a five. SH_

John laughed a bit to himself at the novelty of Sherlock informing him of his whereabouts. Again, this was new, and something that John truly appreciated. It helped stave away the constant underlying guilt and nervousness that something would happen to Sherlock while John wasn’t there.

His musings were interrupted by the gurgling of his stomach, reminding John that he hadn’t eaten since that sandwich hastily devoured several hours earlier. Crossing into the kitchen, he took a bracing breath before opening the fridge.

No heads this time, but there were a number of containers inside that were decidedly not food. _We need to designate a shelf for his stuff, keep it away from the food,_ he thought, then, shaking his head, _Like he’ll restrict himself to that shelf anyway_.

He peered into the depths of the fridge, and saw a takeaway box in the back – maybe the box was from Wednesday’s order, or one from two months ago. _Worth the risk_ , he thought, and reached for it.

His hand jostled one of the bottles, which tipped – “Shit!” – and had no lid on it – “Goddamnit!” – and spilled its contents over his hand -  “Fuck!”

John glared at the blue-milky substance on the back of his hand and then at the growing pool of it on the fridge shelf. He grabbed for the towel roll and wiped the stuff off, then washed his hands. A careful inspection revealed no peeling or discoloured skin.

“Small mercies,” he muttered as he cleaned up the mess. The soiled paper and the now-empty bottle went into a bin liner bag for the hazardous disposal unit at the surgery tomorrow.

He was just tying the bag shut and planning his speech for yelling at Sherlock when his phone trilled with a message.

_Meet me in the alley behind Harrod’s ASAP. Bring your gun. And wire cutters. SH_

John felt his hunger and irritation immediately dissipate at the idea of a case.

_And twenty or so paperclips. SH_

Three minutes later John was out the door, and forgot all about the spill.

***

Several hours later, John and Sherlock trudged up the steps to the flat.

“Well,” John said, “I have to say that I’ve never seen wire cutters melt before.”

“I’ll buy you new ones, John.” Sherlock’s voice had only a slight shade of irritation; mostly it was a mix of elation and exhaustion.

Suddenly John’s hunger flooded back; he’d been too distracted during the case to think of food. “Hungry?”

“Hmmm, yes, I think so. Any of that risotto left?”

“Nope. And that reminds me, please put fucking lids on your experiments in the fridge, will you? I knocked something over earlier.”

“Which one?”

“Kind of blue milk? Glowed a bit?”

“Ah.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered, and John frowned.

“Am I going to grow extra limbs or something?”

“…I don’t _think_ so.”

“I’d prefer if you could be a little more certain about that.”

“Joking, John. Don’t worry, it’s harmless. Takeaway then?” Sherlock turned to hang up his coat.

John thought about saying ‘Mostly harmless’ but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t get the joke. “Sure.”

(something spicy)

“Mmm, yes, how about vindaloo?” John said.

“Ragam’s?”

“I’ll call. You pay. As compensation.”

***

John woke the next morning with all his muscles screaming and reminding him vigorously that he was no longer twenty. He groaned his way to the loo and had as hot a shower as he could manage, which offered some relief. When he emerged into the kitchen he found Sherlock already dressed and hunched over his microscope.

“Morning.”

Sherlock grunted.

“Tea?”

Sherlock grunted.

“Extra strong for you then.” John turned to the sink with the kettle.

(god make it properly in a teapot for once please)

John felt his jaw clench in irritation. “Well, if you want to be such a princess about your tea then make it yourself.”

He turned back to the table, preparing for an argument, but instead saw Sherlock staring at him over his microscope.

“What?” Sherlock said.

“I mean, if you want your tea made in a specific way, you could actually make it yourself.”

Sherlock was shaking his head slowly from side to side. “John, I – I didn’t say anything.”

“What are you talking about? You made a snarky remark about a teapot.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“I – what?”

Sherlock stood, and crossed to John, fast and intense and never breaking his gaze. “Watch me carefully, John. Watch my mouth.”

“What-”

“Watch my mouth.”

John stared at him in confusion but obeyed. He kept his eyes on Sherlock’s mouth, firmly shut, and then was startled to hear Sherlock’s voice.

(john hamish watson)

It was quiet, a murmur, but clear. John felt his jaw drop. “What the fuck…?”

“What did you hear, John?” Sherlock’s voice was stern but his eyes were lit up with discovery.

“My… my…”

“Again. Watch me.”

(the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog)

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock. How are you doing that?”

“What did you hear?”

John licked his lips. “The - quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.”

(chemical formula for silver oxalate is a g two c two oh four)

“Silver oxa – oxa…”

(in the greenest of our valleys by good angels tenanted)

“In the greenest – Sherlock, what’s happening?”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “It would appear, John, that you can hear my thoughts.”


	2. Chapter 2

“It would appear, John, that you can hear my thoughts.”

John stared at him for a moment. “Bullshit.”

“Ventriloquism is not one of my gifts, John, as much as I would like it to be. Believe me, I’ve tried. I was not speaking, I did not say those things, but you are nonetheless hearing them.”

“But… how?”

“I don’t know, I-” Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, and they both turned to look at the bin bag still sitting on the kitchen floor.

“The - that blue stuff – you think – fucking hell, Sherlock, has your mad chemistry infected me at last?”

“Don’t think of this negatively, John.”

John clenched his fists. “Be very grateful _you_ can’t read my mind right now, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes were dancing as he paced around the room. “Look at the bigger picture, John, the potential of this situation. Think of the value of this – you have a skill, a gift, which no one else in the world has. Imagine what an advantage it will be for us.”

“Advantage?”

“ _Think_ , John. When you were a soldier, would it not have helped your strategy to know the enemy’s strategy, down to the last detail? Knew where they were holding out, where they were hiding, what their resources were? And now, to know what a criminal’s next move would be? I’m not talking about telling your fortune for a penny, I’m talking about breaking down key barriers to solving a case!”

John found himself staring at Sherlock’s mouth during his speech, focusing on how his lips moved and the sound corresponded to that movement, and remembering how that wasn’t true earlier.

“I need to sit down,” he said.

Suddenly Sherlock was beside him and walking him to the sofa. John sat and let his head fall back until his breathing evened out.

(oh god please be all right)

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” John said, seeing Sherlock’s thoughts reflected in his creased brow. “Get me some water?”

(water water water water)

John was able to hide his smile by the time Sherlock returned from the kitchen. He drank gratefully, then sat up, able to think more clearly. “All right. As bizarre as this is, I somehow can totally believe that one of your chemicals has made me – Jesus – telepathic. Fine. And I see your point about the potential of this. But-”

“But we don’t understand the situation well enough yet.”

“Well, no.”

“We need to test you.”

“I – what?”

“Test. Find out your limits. Your abilities. Distance, accuracy, et cetera.”

“I’m not a damn experiment, Sherlock.”

(never)

“Of course not, John. But you said it yourself, we need to understand it better.”

John stared at Sherlock. This whole situation was incredibly surreal.

But what he said was, with a sigh, “All right. But no lobotomies, yeah?”

Sherlock grinned (oh) and said, “Of course not.”

***

The next few hours were strange and bizarre and oddly amusing, with Sherlock applying his scientific principles to John’s new ability. He began by ripping down a cold case visual map from the sitting room wall – “This is _far_ more interesting, John!” – and adding his notes in his loopy printing on sticky notes to the wall as they went:

  * Receiver = JW; Transmitter = SH
  * Receiver only receives audio transmission, not visual images
  * Transmitter does not have to be in visual range of receiver
  * Transmission seems to be limited to a receiver/transmitter distance of ten metres (lateral and horizontal)
  * Physical barriers block transmission?  
     Cloth – no negative effect on transmission - 100%  
     Plaster wall – OK approx. 90%  
     Brick wall – slightly indistinct but still received approx. 75%
  * Transmission limited to single transmitter (SH)?



Sherlock tapped his pen thoughtfully against this final point. “We need to expand our testing, John. I doubt very much that it’s just my mind you can read.”

John shifted uncomfortably. “I’m getting a little – there’s an ethical aspect to this, you know. It’s one thing when it’s you, participating willingly. Not sure I want to waltz downstairs and invade Mrs. Hudson’s personal thoughts.”

“But if we inform the subjects it could invalidate the results! It has to be a blind test.”

John tilted his head at Sherlock. “Who are we testing here, Sherlock? We’re testing me, not them. We have to inform people, and they choose whether they participate. And they have to have an opportunity to censor anything private.”

“But-”

“That’s the way it’s got to be, Sherlock,” John said firmly.

(fine)

“Fine, John. If you insist.”

“I do.”

“All right. So.”

The stared at each other for a moment, and then said in unison, “ **Not** Mrs. Hudson.”

They laughed, and Sherlock said, “The Yarders?”

“All right.”

“Get your coat.”

A few minutes later they were down on Baker Street, and Sherlock had worked his usual magic and hailed a cab. As it pulled away from the kerb, Sherlock threw John an odd look and a smile, and leaned forward to the driver.

“Scotland Yard. And I must warn you, my friend here can read minds.”

“Right you are, sir,” the cabbie replied.

(why do the fucking nutters always chose my bloody cab)

John and Sherlock spent the whole rest of the trip suppressing giggles and almost succeeding.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock visit the Yarders and John learns more than he was expecting.

When they arrived at the Scotland Yard, John heard the usual din of a working police station: phones ringing, officers exchanging information, prisoners shouting about the unfairness of it all. But now there was an underlying murmur, a hum of thoughts crowding against John’s ears. There were too many to discern any single string from the tangle, but occasionally a brief thought would rise to the surface when he passed someone:

(not my fault)

(god that arsehole again)

(julie’s going to kill me if she finds out)

He was trying to figure out how to explain this to Sherlock when he heard Greg’s gruff voice calling to them.

“You two out of cold cases already? I had thought that lot would keep you busy for at least another week.”

He turned to see Greg grinning at him, and he grinned back as they shook hands. “You know it would take more than that to keep us out of trouble, Greg.”

(christ it’s good to see them together again)

“Your office, please, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. His voice was calm but John could still hear his excitement behind it. “We have a… an issue to discuss.”

“Someone after you?”

(again)

“Not this time,” John said. “This is a little different.”

Greg half bowed and extended an arm in welcome. “Lead on. I’m intrigued.”

When they got to his office, Greg cleared towering stacks of paper off two chairs for them and sat behind his desk, swinging his feet up to the tabletop. “What’s up, then?”

John scratched at his eyebrow. Suddenly putting the situation into words seemed impossible, like a science fiction novel. “Well, ehm, it’s hard to explain…”

“John ingested a chemical compound topically yesterday by accident, and now he is telepathic.”

For once, John was grateful for Sherlock’s ability to cut through social niceties and get to the point. “Yeah. That. I guess. Yeah.”

Greg was staring at them both, his face wavering between amusement and confusion. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” Sherlock said, popping the P.

Greg turned to John, clearly hoping that he’d be the voice of reason as counterpoint to Sherlock’s bizarre statement. John smiled at him, a bit shyly.

“You were thinking about what to get your daughter for her birthday. Just now. She wants a game console but you think they’re too expensive.”

Greg’s jaw fell open. “Fuck off.”

“God’s truth, Greg.”

“But how…?”

“We’ve tested it extensively already,” Sherlock said. His voice sped up into his explaining/deduction rate. “Works to a distance of approximately ten meters, with some reduction of precision depending on the physical barrier, though while we’re here I’d appreciate testing with the soundproof rooms-”

“Hang on,” Greg said, holding up a hand. “You said chemical compound? Isn’t that – could you have other… effects?”

(goddamn it if sherlock poisons him i’ll throttle him)

“I’m fine, Greg, truly. If it were worse, I’d throttle him myself, you know.”

Greg’s eyes were wide, and his head shook from side to side slowly, as if he had no control over his own head. “That’s just fucking weird.”

“Thank you for the astute observation, Lestrade. Now, is there a room available for us to-”

“Greg, I’ve got – oh.” Donovan burst through the door, holding a rolled up map in her hand. She stopped short when she saw Sherlock and John.

(oh fuck)

Time had passed but John still felt a jolt of anger every time he saw Donovan. For her part, she seemed to avoid them for the most part, with the occasional volley of insults between her and Sherlock when an encounter was inevitable.

“Ah, Sergeant Donovan. Working on the Soho burglaries still, are we?” Sherlock purred.

(fucking hell i finally have a break in the case and here he comes along and he’ll figure it out and get the credit fucking again)

“Mind your own business, freak.”

(stop it you’ll get written up again)

(sally sally don’t let him get to you)

(that one’s getting old my schoolmates had better insults for me than that for instance alien spawn or just weirdo)

“Hold it, hold it.” John held his hands up. This was exactly what he had been worried about, getting into people’s thoughts without their knowledge or agreement. He wasn’t exactly sure he wanted into Donovan’s head anyway. “Donovan, can I have a word? Privately?”

Donovan glared again at Sherlock, then huffed into the hallway. John followed, noting that she was still clutching the map in her hand.

“Are you going to chew me out? Because frankly I don’t work for you, and Greg will tell me off anyway so skip it.”

“No,” John said, though he was still irritated and defensive of Sherlock. “Look, I need to tell you something, and then I’ll distract Sherlock and you can show Greg what you’ve got, all right?”

Donovan finally looked at him, a slight frown flickering across her face. “What-”

“I know this is going to sound barmy, but – something’s happened, and I can hear people’s thoughts. I heard yours when you came in the room, you’re worried Sherlock will take over, take credit for the case, right?” Donovan just stared at him; he felt a bit ridiculous but kept going. “I don’t want to do this without you knowing, right? It’s not fair. If you don’t want that, I’ll leave the room and it will be okay. All right? But look – lay off. You two keep needling each other, but you both have to stop taking the bait. I’ll get him away, you lay out your findings for Greg, but leave off the insults, got it?”

“Wait, wait.” Donovan’s face twisted in a disbelieving grin. “Back up. You’ve been hanging out with him too long. Do you actually believe you can read minds?”

“Strange as it may seem.”

She stared at him for a long moment, then crossed her arms and lifted her chin defiantly. “Right, try it.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Think of something I couldn’t possibly know.”

(granny bernadette)

John got a brief flash image of a wizened old woman, stern lines hardened into her face. “You were brought up by your grandmother, named Bernadette.”

Donovan’s eyes widened.

(fucking hell middle name is veruca)

“Your middle name is V-”

“Do **not** say it out loud. All right, I believe you. That’s wild.”

“Yeah, it is. I still can’t believe it myself. We’re still trying to figure out the limits of it, if there are limits.”

“You’re okay though?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… don’t let him take advantage of this. Of you.”

John sighed. “How many times… He is my friend. My best friend. And I’m a grown man, a soldier, remember? I can take care of myself.”

Her head tilted to the side, and she considered John. He got the sense she was looking at him differently than she ever had before.

“You can, of course. And he really is, isn’t he? Your best friend?”

John shrugged. “Yeah. Of course.”

She nodded, almost to herself. “Right. Then here’s something else.”

(i did him a wrong and you both paid the consequences for it for what it’s worth i’m sorry)

Now it was John’s turn to stare at Donovan.

“Got it?” she said.

John nodded dumbly.

“Right.” She turned and marched back into Greg’s office.

John stared after her, blinking. He was so astonished by his conversation – could you call it a conversation? – with Donovan, he didn’t notice Sherlock approaching until he was beside him.

“Donovan said you wanted to talk to me?”

(what did she say to him if she’s said something to)

“It’s all right, Sherlock. It was an… interesting conversation. It’s all fine.”

“It worked? With her, and Lestrade?”

“Yeah. Oh, and I got a visual from her too.”

Sherlock’s face lit up with interest. “Really? Fascinating. You couldn't do that this morning.”

“Yeah. Her... relative.” He looked past Sherlock at Donovan, who now had her map spread out over Greg’s desk and pointing at it. Greg was nodding, with a half smile on his face. John knew that look – it was the same on Sherlock’s face when he was about to break a case. “You know, as weird as this whole thing is… If I had imagined what this would be like, I wouldn’t have imagined it this way.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh – human character.”

(human character how boring)

“I mean, people think things that they would never say out loud. Because they’re too proud, or embarrassed, or whatever.”

“Of course people don’t say everything they think. Otherwise the world would be full of chattering idiots twenty four hours a day.”

John laughed, and moved past Sherlock back into Greg’s office, where he and Donovan seemed to be finished, and Greg was talking intensely into his phone.

(oh god i wonder if careful)

He was just about to ask Sherlock what he meant, when Greg hung up the phone, his eyes serious, and said, “You boys want to help find a kidnapped girl?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John uses his powers for good, but isn't prepared for the impact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Potential trigger warnings for a child being kidnapped and hints at a pedophile. There's a summary at the end of the chapter if you prefer to skip it.

“That was Doyle,” Greg said as he hung up the phone.  “He’s been working a case – young girls disappearing from central London. You remember it, Sherlock?”

“Of course. Last girl disappeared six months ago. I told him to look for a professional banker or lawyer who had been laid off two or more years ago and unemployed since then, mid-thirties and prematurely balding, and asthmatic.”

Greg shot him a sharp look. “Well, with that to go on, Doyle was able to look him up in the London directory. Seriously, he’s got a suspect in custody right now, and he’s pretty sure it’s the guy, but we’ve no hard evidence – and there’s a girl that’s been missing for twenty-six hours.”

Sherlock turned to John, his eyes alight with excitement. “This is perfect! I can confirm my theory about the kidnapper, and you can listen to his thoughts and figure out where the girl is!”

“So convenient, having two mind readers around,” Donovan drawled.

(idiot)

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her. “No,  _ I _ observe and draw conclusions based on those observations.  _ John _ can read minds.”

***

John had to admit to his own frisson of excitement as they walked down to the interview rooms. He’d done a lot of mad things with Sherlock, but in the end it all came down to the cases – finding and putting away the criminals, helping the innocent. Sherlock had called him a romantic on more than one occasion, but in his heart of hearts, he rather liked being a part of the quixotic ideal of a crime-fighting team.

This particular version of crime fighting was not what he was expecting, but still.

“Do you need to be in the same room with him, John?” Greg asked.

“If that’s possible,” he said. “Seems to work better.”

“He’s cuffed, you’ll be safe.”

“It shouldn’t take long.”

Greg stopped in front of the two-way window, and jerked his head towards the room. “There he is.” 

A slight figure was sat at a table by himself. His hands were cuffed, and his well manicured hands were flat on the table in front of him, fingers spread wide. He looked perfectly ordinary, perfectly calm; John wouldn’t have looked at him twice on the Tube or on the street.

“That’s him, it must be,” Sherlock said. “Look at his earlobes.”

“Unfortunately his earlobes aren’t enough to convict him,” Greg said. He turned to John, serious and stern. “See if you can get something substantial, something that we can get good evidence for. Getting the kid is the most important thing though, assuming he’s the one that took her.” 

John looked at Greg’s face, rumpled with worry, and was reminded what a good cop he was. “All right,” he said.

“You sure about this, John?” Greg said.

“How old is the girl that’s missing?”

Greg swallowed. “Thirteen.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Greg gave the officer at the door a curt nod, then opened the door.

The man didn’t flinch or startle at the sound of the door, but angled his head just slightly to the side at the sound. John was briefly cognizant of Sherlock stepping up beside him before -

(fools they’re all fools just waiting isn’t it just waiting for them to tire of their silly questions and their silly rules the walls are made of paper just paper can’t keep me here they have nothing do they nothing just little children prattling at me little children playing at police games keeping me from my games just wait just wait wait until they run out of silly questions then i can go home off to my own little games off to mummy’s in the little house by the garden gate little pretty sweet girl waiting for me and i can)

John was barely aware of stumbling, staggering away from the room, his legs numb and rubbery underneath him. He saw a dustbin under a desk and aimed for it, collapsing as he vomited violently into it. He heaved until there was nothing left in his stomach, his eyes and nose streaming. He could hear Greg shouting at a great distance. Sherlock’s hands were fluttering over his shoulders.

(oh god it’s all my fault stupid stupid i can’t)

A white handkerchief appeared in front of him and John took it gratefully. He could smell Greg’s cologne on it, and he focused on the scent to bring him back to himself.

(christ that was a mistake i shouldn’t have)

“S’alright Greg,” he slurred. He wiped his face and mouth, aware that his hand was shaking hard. He sat back and leaned against the desk, concentrating on his breathing. Donovan swam into view with a glass of water in her hand and concern etched into her face. “Thanks.”

“What happened?” she said. (my god he was in the war what does it take for him to react like that)

John shook his head, unable to put into words the experience of hearing the man’s thoughts, even for a few seconds. “He – he-”

“Drink, John.”

Sherlock’s voice was low and quiet in a way that John had never heard before. He took a sip of water, then found himself gulping, and felt better. “I’m all right – let me up.”

Once he was on his feet, his brain cleared enough to feel embarrassed at being the centre of everyone’s concern. “Everyone stop fussing, God. Greg. The girl’s on his mother’s property. Not in the house, though – look for a shed or garden house or something. Maybe one of the old bomb shelters from the war, out back.”

Greg’s expression snapped from worry to sharp alertness. “You sure?” (need a search warrant no still property covered under the warrant we already have should hold up in court)

John laughed mirthlessly. “I don’t think I want to be any more sure.”

“Right.” Greg nodded and turned to Donovan. “You have the address?” (go go go get her thirteen years old hopefully she’s)

“I’ll get it from Doyle. Meet you in the car park.” (hurry hurry get the poor kid out and home)

“Do you want to…?” Greg said, as he pulled on his coat. (sherlock always wants to go to the crime scene his addiction now)

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m taking John home,” Sherlock said sharply. (so pale never seen him like this except when I oh)

John looked up at Sherlock, shocked. Sherlock glared and said, “Shut up,” in a way that brooked no argument. (home baker street comfort perhaps whisky)

John acquiesced, realizing that he was still shaky from vomiting and shock. He was tired, exhausted to the bone. He turned to Greg and said, “Hurry,” but Greg was already headed for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: John listens to the thoughts of a suspected kidnapper and is able to find out where the girl has been hidden, but is repulsed and sickened by what he hears. Greg, Sally, but most of all Sherlock are very concerned for John. Greg and Sally head out to find the missing child, and Sherlock takes John home in a cab.
> 
> Question for all you lovely people who are following this: I counted on my fingers and toes and have figured out that at this rate of updating (every Wednesday), this story will post its last chapter just a few days after Christmas and just a few days before Series 4 airs. Is that what you want? Do you want me to speed up so this is done before the holidays, or stretch it out to last until after S4 airs? Let me know in the comments.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cab ride home; John gains some insight into Sherlock's mind.

John stumbled out into the street as though his feet weren’t really touching the earth. Sherlock walked closely beside him, almost but not quite supporting him. The moment John smelled the fresh air his head cleared a bit.

“Think you can work your magic and get us a cab?” he said.

(magic what nonsense it’s simple algorithms based on traffic shut up shut up just)

Within a minute a cab had pulled up next to them and Sherlock, for a wonder, had opened the door and let John in first. Sherlock gave the address while John cracked the window open to let some of the cool air blow on his face. The cabbie frowned.

(he better not chunder in here or i’ll charge double swear to god)

“S’alright mate,” he murmured, letting his head tilt back.

(colour returning at least six shades pinker feeling better good he vomited approximately one hundred twenty five millilitres of his stomach contents last time he drank to vomiting he lost about the same but that was mostly liquid don’t understand why he didn’t let me in the toilet to get a better estimate)

John let his eyes slide shut as he smiled. So like Sherlock to want to analyze his puke.

(donovan knew to get him water should have thought of that dehydration could have been a danger that glass was only five ounces get more for him when we get home and what else what else bread rice applesauce tea or is it toast don’t have any applesauce get mrs hudson to make some)

“I’m fine, Sherlock. Really.” John didn’t have to open his eyes to know that the cabbie was staring.

(he’s much better excellent the case now i knew that it would be someone with connected earlobes should call molly tomorrow and see if she’s got some spare ears twenty should be sufficient connective tissue intact of course too much to hope to find correlated data for a kidnapper or pedophile but perhaps can extrapolate or get permission to study live ones at pentonville where was that study in correlation between sexual response and the mendelian trait in human ears but is the variant correlated to psychopathic behaviour do i still have that book on phrenology from seventeen ninety six based on outdated medical practice but still relevant the thinning hair was obvious many studies linking that to self-esteem when combined with megalomania just exacerbates the psychopathy of course it’s all in the dna)

Now John was staring at Sherlock. Christ, was this what it was like for him all the time? This non-stop data, the volume and depth and breadth of thought constantly streaming in his head? No wonder Sherlock shot up the flat when he was bored and had no distractions available to him.

(something else something important yes donovan her reaction to john what did she do what did he hear he said people think things that they would never say out loud what did she think that she couldn’t say he looked shocked not scandalized but surprised so it was something he hadn’t anticipated perhaps the drugs could she no she wouldn’t have no but that was before I met him but he knows he knows about the drugs he knows i’m clean now would that still shock him doubtful but he doesn’t like to hear about it always frowns when he’s reminded of it)

John’s brow furrowed as he stared. “Sherlock…”

“Mmm?” Sherlock turned away from the window toward John.

(oh god I forgot stupid stupid he can hear me)

Sherlock’s eyes widened and John watched in horror as the blood drained from his face.

(everything he can hear everything i could give it all away he’d know and he’d leave he can’t know i’ve kept it safe all these years can’t give it away now he can hear you shut up SHUT UP)

“Sherlock? What-”

“Here we are, John, Baker Street,” Sherlock said, and John was horrified to see Sherlock’s fake smile take over his face, the one he used with strangers. “Here we go cabbie, will ten pounds cover it?” He threw the money at the cabbie, jumped out of the car, ran around, and opened John’s door. “Out you come, you’re feeling better now, yes? Excellent. Feeling hungry yet? Perhaps not. Too soon? Well. Some soup, later on, then. I’ll let you go in and I’ll pick up some. What kind do you like? Chicken? That’s probably best given how you feel. I’ll go to Tesco. Or Asda’s. Back soon. Or may drop by the lab. Just text me if you think of something you’d rather for dinner. Have some tea. Back later.”

And he was off with a whirl of tweed, leaving John on the front step of 221B, confused and troubled.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John works it out.
> 
> "Are you afraid of me?"

John slowly climbed the steps up to the flat, aware of the huge and sudden silence in his head. He hadn’t realized until now how much the clamour of other people’s thoughts had crowded in on him. Now he collapsed into his chair and stared into space, thinking.

He had always known that Sherlock’s mind worked at a different pace than the rest of the world. Fast, intense, electrifying – it was the crowding of so much information into that single brain that made him so brilliant and so infuriating all at once.

Now John had experienced it first-hand. He’d had a brief glimpse into Sherlock’s constant state of being and was overwhelmed by it. For the first time he could truly empathize with Sherlock – for the way he behaved when he had no case to distract him, for his impatience with people who thought more slowly than he did, getting in his way. He had understood the theory behind the mind palace, the method of loci, but now he understood the absolute necessity of it. He imagined a younger Sherlock, before he had developed the memory technique, with his mind unharnessed and without regulatory order, and could see why Sherlock would have turned to drugs in desperation.

Was that what Sherlock was so afraid of? That Donovan had given away his past drug use to John? That seemed unlikely – Sherlock knew that John was aware of the cocaine history, right from the day John moved in. John came to terms long ago with the fact that his best friend was a recovering drug addict, and would always be a recovering drug addict, and that relapses such as that awful time last year were always a possibility.

So, something else. What would Sherlock want to keep from John?

Something else about Mary? John’s stomach clenched at the thought. What else could there be? The whole situation had been about as bad as could be – Mary’s past, her attempted murder of Sherlock, the baby not being his, their entire marriage a sham from start to finish – John could not imagine how it could be worse. He remembered Sherlock’s face when he explained everything to John after that aborted trip to Serbia, seeing his face open and honest and vulnerable in a way John had never seen before. He knew without a doubt that Sherlock had already told him everything.

Had Sherlock guessed the whole thing sooner than John had originally assumed? Was that it? John found himself thinking of the moment Sherlock deduced the pregnancy, at the wedding. Could Sherlock have figured out Mary’s infidelity even then? He turned that thought over in his mind, and then rejected it. No; John remembered the look on Sherlock’s face, the way his smile faded into a terrible sadness that John could not bring himself to look at. That was not the look of a man cursing himself for a failed deduction. 

At the time, John had assumed that Sherlock was predicting and assuming a diminishment of their friendship. Could it have been something more than that? It had clearly rattled Sherlock enough to leave immediately afterwards.

_ ‘The two people who love you most in all the world.’  _

The memory of the words came to John as clearly as though Sherlock was in the room again, resplendent in formal wear. At the time, his reaction was to steel himself against the implications of what Sherlock had said, to say to himself, ‘Jesus Christ, Watson, do not cry in front of all these people.’

Now it hit him like a freight train - Sherlock had equated his feelings for John to Mary’s. In front of a hundred people.

Sherlock loved him.

Sherlock loved him and had carefully hidden everything away after he deduced Mary’s pregnancy. Hidden it all away to protect Mary and John. No – to protect Mary  _ for _ John. To give him the marriage John thought he wanted.

That’s what Sherlock was trying to hide from him. Sherlock loved John.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. He stood and paced around the flat, the realisation alchemizing his muscles to create restless energy. “Jesus Christ.”

He remembered that first dinner, the attraction to Sherlock that he couldn’t quite understand or define, and Sherlock’s clear response, “I consider myself married to my work.”

_ But then you became part of the work, didn’t you? _ he thought.  _ He made you an active part of his work. No one else. Just you. _

‘Just the two of us against the rest of the world.’  _ And then I hit him. Oh God. _

John sat in his chair, dizzy and sick. He began to go through everything Sherlock had ever said to him since the day they met.

The sunlight had changed its angle through the windows by the time John came back to himself. He stared at Sherlock’s empty chair opposite him, nodded curtly to himself and said, “Right.”

He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed.

           Where are you?

He waited three minutes with no response.

           You’re not at Tesco, are you.

Nothing. His palms began to sweat.

           I’m guessing that you’re at least ten metres away from me.

Finally, finally, John saw the rotating dots indicating that Sherlock was typing.

           Good deduction. SH

John grinned.

           I’ve picked up a thing or two over the years.  I further deduce that you didn’t go to Asda either. Or the lab.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

           Top marks. SH

John typed, quickly.

_            Why did you _

Delete. Start again.

_            Where _

Again.

_            I need to _

John bit his lip, took a deep breath. Typed and pressed Send before he could think twice.

           Are you coming back?

No answer. John’s heart started thrumming in his chest. He swallowed past the rising nausea and typed, his fingers shaking. He had to know.

           Are you afraid of me?

John’s phone trilled before he had time to panic.

           NO. SH

And again.

           No. Never. SH

John pressed his lips together, and smiled small.

           Well you should be. Mean old soldier man reading minds and all.

           I’m sorry John. It’s my fault you got infected or whatever we want to call this. SH

           Well yeah but that’s not the point any more.

John watched the dots rotate, imagining Sherlock thinking.

           And what is the point? SH

           The point is I think you have something you want to say. That you think I don’t want to hear.

His fingers hesitated over the phone, and decided to dare.

           We both have things to say Sherlock.

           Come home.

           Please.

He stared at the phone, caught between wishing for it to ring and for it to not ring; instead he heard the door downstairs slowly open and Sherlock’s hard-soled shoes tap on the landing.

John’s heart began to race. He tried to focus on his breathing, slow it down.

_ This is really happening _ , he thought.

“Oh God,” he whispered.

(oh god)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be another update later this week, so this will be complete and posted in full before Christmas.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I need – Sherlock, it’s all right, but I need you to – I need to hear it.”
> 
> Sherlock comes home.

John put his phone away, trying to ignore how his hands were shaking, and turned to face the door.  He listened to Sherlock’s slow ascent of the stairs. Sherlock’s thoughts chanted in time to the rhythm of his footsteps.

(oh god oh god what did he mean i can’t but oh he said we both have something to say could he mean he can’t though he always said but perhaps no he can’t possibly mean)

The door swung open, and John was taken aback by Sherlock’s expression – vulnerability and hauteur battling for dominance on his pale face. John realized that he was standing in parade rest, facing Sherlock squarely, his back as straight and as tall as his body would allow. He gave Sherlock a small nod and a smaller smile, trying to say with his eyes, ‘ _It’s all right._ ’

(i’m afraid)

“I know. You don’t have to be.”

(can’t lose you not again)

“You won’t.”

(oh god oh god you say that but you don’t know you can’t know i’ve never and all those women and i thought impossible so and how could i believe how)

“Sherlock,” John said. He tried to keep his voice low and steady, to not betray the surge of adrenaline making his heart bang in his chest. “Sherlock.”

(he said donovan could say things she wouldn’t say because of pride but it’s not pride it’s fear i could lose him he’s not turning away he’s anxious but not angry could he could i oh god i)

“I need – Sherlock, it’s all right, but I need you to – I need to hear it.”

Sherlock breathed out in a hiss, and John could see him trying to release his tension with the exhale.

(breathe breathe concentrate breathe)

Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed at John steadily, lifting his chin almost defiantly.

(love you john always have)

John found himself almost laughing with relief as he crossed the room in two quick strides. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock so fast and so hard he heard the breath huff out of him, and then Sherlock’s arms were around him too.

(he’s oh he)

John loosened his grip on Sherlock and grinned up at him. He hadn’t seen so many emotions cross Sherlock’s face before, even in the midst of a case. Now Sherlock was smiling, shy, but also confused, bemused, and still uncertain. At the moment, holding Sherlock, Sherlock holding him, felt so overwhelmingly _right_ , that he knew any uncertainty could be overcome.

“I never thought that one of your mad experiments would bring us to this,” he said.

Sherlock’s uncertainty faded by degrees, and his smile became his familiar smirk. “An unexpected outcome, to be sure.”

“But not unwelcome?”

“No.”  Sherlock’s face turned solemn. “I don’t understand though, John – you always said-”

“Well, _you_ always said – married to your work. And I’m an idiot, you know.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock said, suddenly earnest. “Not an idiot at all. That’s why I – right from the beginning I-” Sherlock halted, the uncertain look returning to his face. “John, I don’t – I don’t know how – I don’t have words for this.”

“We don’t need them,” John said. “Just – let me?”

John reached up and cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, tracing his beautiful cheekbones with the tips of his fingers. Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

(so careful never seen him like this can he really mean it)

“I do though,” John murmured. He tilted his forehead against Sherlock’s, listening to his trembling breath. “It took me too damn long to figure it out, and I’m sorry. But I do.”

(never realized the different shades of blue in his eyes pantone two one nine four and six six zero and oh concentrate this is real this is happening)

“Hush,” John said, and brushed his lips against Sherlock’s.

(so soft oh)

“Okay?” John whispered into Sherlock’s mouth.

(yes yes yes oh please)

“Yes.”

John moved his hand around to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him and kissed him, deep and with all his feelings laid bare.

(oh oh so soft wet cool never like this never imagined)

Gently, softly, John ran his tongue against Sherlock’s full lips until they parted, and he deepened the kiss.

(oh dear lord that’s oh what is he doing oh how can something affect me like this dear god so wonderful i’m getting hard i’m oh never understood sexual stimuli was like this physiological signs of arousal muscle tension yes increased heart rate yes about ninety two beats per minute breathing forty five respirations per minute elevated blood pressure and oh)

John smiled, breaking the kiss, and as Sherlock chased after his mouth, smiled wider. “Your amazing brain,” he said. “You’re thinking so much.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, looking half dazed and half sheepish.

“Don’t worry, Sherlock. Just means I have to up the ante, yeah?”

(up the ante what does that)

John felt a huge swell of affection for this man, this amazing, irritating, unique, brilliant, lonely man, who knew everything about death and nothing about love, who loved him without knowing how to show it. He laughed, feeling freer and lighter than he had in years.

“I love you too, you incredible thing,” John said, then pressed him against the wall and kissed him with all his strength, his hope, and his affection. He let everything he was feeling flow through his lips and tongue, and felt Sherlock melt against his body.

(oh)

He let his tongue caress Sherlock’s, curling into his mouth; teaching him, and letting Sherlock’s tongue chase his as he learned.

(ah)

He kissed down Sherlock’s jawline to the hollow of his neck, licking softly against the dip at his jugular.

(ohoh)

He pressed his leg carefully between Sherlock’s and smiled against Sherlock’s neck when he felt the hardness there. He ran his hand down Sherlock’s side, slowly but firmly so he could anticipate what John was going to do. He curved his hand over Sherlock’s cock through his trousers, feeling it strain against the cloth.

(aaah)

He raised his eyes to look at Sherlock, and had his breath taken away – Sherlock’s head was tilted back against the wall, a flush creeping up his throat and face, his lips parted and trembling.

“God, you’re beautiful, I can’t believe how beautiful. Can’t believe how long-”

(john oh john)

“I want to lie down with you,” John whispered into Sherlock’s ear, unable to stop rocking his hips against Sherlock’s thigh, mesmerized by the feel of Sherlock’s hard cock under his hand. “Can we do that? I want to lie down, take your clothes off, look at you – is that okay? Can I?”

(yes oh yes john)

Somehow they drifted down the hall, never breaking contact, falling on the bed together with their arms tight around each other. John immediately set to unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and was momentarily shocked by the number of scars he saw.

(john i)

_Later_ , he thought, _I’ll get him to explain later_ , because there was no way he wanted to stop now. He set to kissing Sherlock all over his chest, testing the sensitivity of his nipples. He was pleased when Sherlock arched his back and whined as John gently bit on the erect nubs.

(more oh)

And John wanted more too, he wanted all of Sherlock’s skin on his skin, wanted to capture forever the look of ecstasy on Sherlock’s face. He sat up and pulled his shirt off over his head. He was working on the zip of his jeans when Sherlock’s hands fluttered against the web of scar tissue on his shoulder.

(oh john)

He took Sherlock’s hands in his and kissed his fingers, one by one. Then he pulled off his jeans. Sherlock’s eyes went wide as he stared at John’s cock, erect and leaking already.

(oh)

“You too?” John whispered, and when Sherlock nodded he unbuttoned and unzipped Sherlock’s trousers, carefully pulled them down and off. Sherlock’s cock was long and slender, hard and ridged with veins pulsing their urgency. He laid down next to Sherlock and let his fingers explore Sherlock’s naked body.

(i)

Sherlock’s hands hesitated at first, then began to trace the contours of John’s frame: cupping the curve of a bicep, dipping into his waist, tracing the outline of his hip. Sherlock’s eyes met his, an eyebrow arched in question.

(i want)

“Yes, Sherlock,” John panted, and Sherlock’s fingers slid down and curled around his cock. John gasped, and reached down to grip Sherlock in return. He began to rub, and felt Sherlock echoing his movements on him.

(                                              )

Everything went white, and John heard Sherlock groan, bone deep, and Sherlock twitched and came all over his hand and belly. He felt the spatter against his skin, felt Sherlock’s entire body tense, felt the vibration of his voice. John found himself experiencing Sherlock’s orgasm - hearing it, thinking it, feeling it, as Sherlock did. Then John’s own orgasm hit him hard, overwhelming his body and mind. He could distantly hear himself shouting and Sherlock crooning his name over and over.

Eventually his vision cleared and he saw Sherlock, panting and sweaty, his eyes glassed over. He pulled him closer and kissed him all over his florid face.

“John, that was – I can’t describe-”

“Incredible?”

Sherlock smiled, slow and lazy. “That. And more.”

John pulled him close, already feeling the post-orgasmic drugged sleep stealing up on him. “You are extraordinary, my love.”

(love)

“Yes,” John said, combing his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Love.”

(yes love yes)

John could hear a noise that was rather like a baritone cat purring, and before he could figure out if the sound was Sherlock’s thoughts or a sound he was actually making, he fell into sleep.

He was startled awake in the morning by noise like a bomb going off.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thought a bomb had gone off. It wasn't a bomb.

John honestly thought a bomb had gone off. He sat bolt upright in bed, doubly discombobulated by unfamiliar surroundings and by ear-bending, heart-stopping _noise_.

His eyes skittered around the room as he hyperventilated from the adrenaline rush. He could see that it was morning, that he was in Sherlock’s room, that the windows had not been blown in by an explosion, and the noise was a huge roaring wave, hammering into his head. He clapped his hands over his ears, but there was no change in the volume or intensity. He gradually began to realize that the sound was not sound, but voices, thoughts, clamouring and crowding his brain.

(another day/god i hate this job/i just want a coffee/damn bus is late again/should i leave her we’re not happy haven’t been happy in years/god i want to kill myself/if she doesn’t make up her mind soon i’m going to/two pounds outrageous i remember when it only cost fifty pence/chem test today got to pass/god she’s beautiful i wonder if she’d/filthy foreigners everywhere/get out of the way get out of the way)

Movement to his side startled him, and he jerked around to see Sherlock, still nude, sitting up and staring at him in consternation.

“John? John, what’s wrong?”

John could see Sherlock’s lips moving but could not hear his actual voice over the tumult. He watched Sherlock’s brows knit in confusion, while Sherlock’s thoughts rose up over the clamour.

(what is it is this regret no it’s fear alarm heart rate accelerated breathing erratic sweat what is it is he ill)

It was like Sherlock was shouting to be heard over the din, and it was making it worse, he couldn’t bear it, it was like being in the war zone again.

“Sherlock,” he said, and he might have been shouting, he wasn’t sure. “Sherlock, I can’t – there’s so much – I can hear everyone, everything – Jesus Christ Sherlock, help me!”

(oh god his perimeter has expanded tuesday morning busy street he’s hearing everyone he’s in severe distress)

“Calm down, John, breathe, just-”

John shook his head; he couldn’t hear Sherlock’s actual voice any more but his thoughts were screaming, a harsh wail over the cacophony of what felt like the entire world.

(he can’t hear me how can i oh)

Sherlock’s forehead crinkled in worry and thought, then he jumped out of bed and pulled his phone from his trousers, discarded on the floor. He typed for a moment, then held the phone out to John.

YOU CAN’T HEAR ME SPEAK?

“No, no, I can’t,” John panted. “Everything else – it’s too loud-”

BUT YOU CAN HEAR MORE THOUGHTS?

“I must be, Sherlock, God, it’s like it’s everyone in London!”

(powers have increased beyond his body’s ability to cope with it oh god this is my fault this started because of me i didn’t see the signs of it increasing visual images yesterday the kidnapper all my fault i)

“Shut up, Sherlock, please just shut up, I can’t-”

Sherlock looked stunned and horrified, but John was too overwhelmed to care. Sherlock typed again.

ARE MY THOUGHTS LOUDER THAN EVERYTHING ELSE?

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, I just – help me please!”

(it’s the proximity whoever’s closest to him is loudest what can i do what do i do)

John watched Sherlock’s jaw set in determination, watched him type again, stabbing at the keys.

I WILL FIX THIS. I PROMISE.

Sherlock laid a hand gently on John’s cheek, then scrambled out of bed, grabbing at his clothing and pulling them on.

 _He’s leaving, he’s leaving me_ , John thought in a panic. Part of him knew that his panic was illogical, that Sherlock needed to leave the room to solve the mystery that his ability had become, but he found himself choking with fear at the thought of being alone with all the noise.

“Don’t go, please Sherlock, don’t leave me alone, I can’t bear it…” he found himself babbling.

Sherlock’s face melted into sympathy and regret. _How could I ever think that he didn’t care?_ John thought. Sherlock typed into his phone again.

I’M SORRY JOHN, I HAVE TO. I DON’T WANT TO BUT I NEED TO GO TO BART’S TO FIGURE THIS OUT.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, and typed again.

AND I’M CAUSING YOU MORE PAIN. I DON’T WANT THAT.

“I know, Sherlock, I just can’t – I’m – I-”

Suddenly Sherlock’s face lit up. He held his hand up to tell John to ‘wait’, and ran out the door. John stared after him, confused; but a second later Sherlock returned and held out his phone again.

YOU MAY WANT TO GET DRESSED.

John stared at him, uncomprehending. Sherlock sighed and picked up John’s jeans. John felt himself getting manhandled into his clothes, but recovered sufficiently to do up the zip and buttons on his own. Sherlock straightened John’s shirt, smoothing it over his shoulders, and briefly touched his forehead to John’s.

(so beautiful i hope that he)

Then Sherlock broke away, biting his lip, and ran out the door again.

Alone, John found his panic levels rising again. The noise was increasing, to absolute pandemonium. He curled himself into a ball on the bed, trying to focus on his breathing, trying to shut out the terror. Minutes or hours later, he couldn’t tell, the door swung open again and Sherlock propelled Mrs. Hudson into the room, his hand firm but gentle on her elbow.

(what on earth sherlock)

“What on earth, Sherlock?”

“It’s as I said, Mrs. Hudson. John is ill, and I need to go out in order to help him, and I need you to sit with him.”

“Well, of course, dear, but why did you need me to bring-”

“It’s difficult to explain, but it’s really very helpful if you do.”

Sherlock pulled a chair over next to the bed and guided Mrs. Hudson to sit in it. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He looked over at John with a look of such tenderness that John’s breath was taken away. “As soon as I can.”

(no one else i could trust to care for him)

Then he slipped out of the room.

(goodness gracious have these two idiots finally figured it out)

“Mrs. Hudson – I hope so, I really do,” John heard himself saying. He felt like he had a high fever, that everything that had happened in the last forty eight hours had been a dream, nearly forgotten in his present nightmare. He squeezed his eyes shut as if that would help block out the noise. He felt Mrs. Hudson’s cool dry fingers trace over his hair.

(my boys they really are my boys)

Her hand slipped away and he opened his eyes again, searching for her. She settled herself into her chair and pulled out her knitting bag.

(now where was i this is a lovely colour should bring out deidre’s eyes now let’s see knit two purl two four stitches to the front)

He couldn’t hear the clacking of her needles, but the mantra of her thoughts over the jumper she was making made him feel a little calmer. He closed his eyes again, and let the sound float over him.

(cable four back knit two purl four)

He didn’t sleep, it was impossible to sleep as the thoughts rose and crashed over Mrs. Hudson’s soothing ruminations on cable knits, scones with raisins, and her boys. It grew to became one huge gibbering howl, and he pressed his hands over his ears, even though he knew it was futile. He was vaguely aware of moaning, and sometimes Mrs. Hudson smoothed his forehead with her hand but he could barely feel it, let alone thank her.

Time stretched out like melting glass, hard and hot.

(john john i’m coming hold on)

He heard Sherlock’s thoughts as he approached, though he didn’t hear the cab door slam, didn’t hear him racing up the stairs to 221B, didn’t hear the door crash open, didn’t hear Mrs. Hudson’s little startled shriek.

(good lord he will scare me to death one day)

“You’ll scare me to death one day, young man,” Mrs. Hudson gasped.

(john john john)

Then Sherlock was on the bed, pulling John out from the foetal position he had curled into, pulling him upright, and cradling his shoulders. John’s head lolled.

“Here, John. Drink it. You have to drink it all.”

(heavens what is that is it meant to be glowing like that)

“Heavens, what is that, Sherlock?”

John felt a flask pressed against his lips and he swallowed. The liquid was thick, viscous, bitter, and burned like fire down his throat.

(i hope this works)

Then every muscle in John’s body tensed into iron and the world went black.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fixing things.

John rose up into wakefulness slowly, blinking into bright sunshine. He looked around, realizing that he was still in Sherlock’s room, and that Sherlock himself was sitting in a chair in the corner opposite the bed.

He also realized that it was quiet. But for the low buzz of traffic on Baker Street, it was completely quiet. He sighed with the relief of it.

He took a moment to study Sherlock’s familiar figure: dressed immaculately, his hands pressed together at his lips, eyes closed in thought or meditation. He looked like a statue carved of granite, an angel in Spencer and Hart. John felt a warm curl of pleasure in his gut at the memory of kissing those lips, holding him, watching him shake apart in ecstasy.

He continued surveying Sherlock’s figure and began to notice other things about him. His hair, normally styled with care, hung limp and tangled. His suit jacket was wrinkled as though he had been sitting for a long time. One manicured thumbnail was bitten ragged down to the quick.

“Sherlock,” John said softly.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, fixing on John immediately. “John?”

“Hey there.”

Sherlock crossed the room in two long strides and sat on the side of the bed. “Are you… How…”

“I’m fine,” John said, feeling a huge grin split his face. “It’s gone. You did it.”

A smile flicked across Sherlock’s face and was gone again so quickly John found himself wondering if it was ever there at all. “Good,” Sherlock said, nodding. “Good. I’m – that’s good.”

“How long was I out?”

Sherlock cleared his throat, and sat up straight, turning perpendicular to the bed, like a student delivering a report to the principal. “After I administered the antidote, you experienced a series of tonic-clonic seizures. The seizures lasted one minute forty three seconds, and were followed by a semi-conscious state for twenty one hours and,” Sherlock glanced at his watch, “seven minutes.”

_He sat here the entire time_ , John thought. _He watched over me_.

“Guess I needed the sleep,” he said.

“You didn’t move _at all_ ,” Sherlock said, almost under his breath.

John reached out to touch him, wanting desperately to comfort him, to apologize for all the worry he’d caused, but Sherlock sat just out of reach.

“Sherlock,” he said. He didn’t like the sharp angles of Sherlock’s body, faced away from him, the blankness of his face.

“John, I-” Sherlock said, “I – When you – I didn’t…” His mouth snapped shut and he growled in frustration, fingers knotting together, the knuckles turning white.

“Spit it out, Sherlock,” John said, going for levity. “I can’t actually read minds any more, love.”

Sherlock’s head whipped around to stare at John. His brow wrinkled, and John was startled to see the muscles of his jaw working. “Love?” he spat.

_Oh God, oh no_ , John thought. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“I keep hurting you, John!” Sherlock shouted. “Over and over again! I say awful things, I insult you, and I expose you to danger, and I let you think I was _dead_ for two years, for God’s sake! And now – you didn’t see yourself, seizing and then… And I keep – disappointing you, and hurting you and – you cannot mean that, _love_!”

“I do mean it, though,” John said, his heart thrumming wildly. “I do, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, composing himself but still vibrating with tension. “John, I realize that I have no real right to ask this of you, but don’t say that. You can’t possibly. It’s cruel to say it when it can’t be true.”

“It is possible, and true. Do you think that because of, of all this, that I would – that everything we did, everything we said last night, just goes away?”

“That’s the way it is, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s voice was hard and brittle.

“No,” John said. “ _No_. Look, I’m hardly the one to be talking about relationships, but listen to me, all right? I love you, okay? That doesn’t turn off like a light switch. Yeah, you fucked up. But you also fixed it. You insult me, but you also make me laugh. You faked your death to save me. And you came back, and don’t think I’m not grateful for that every single day.”

Sherlock was still as a statue, but John could see his shoulders coming down, gradually relaxing.

“And I’ve messed up too, you know. I’ve shouted at you when I shouldn’t’ve, left you alone when you needed me there. You came back from the dead and I knocked you down instead of… what I should have done. I stayed married to a woman that shot you, for God’s sake. And,” John looked up at Sherlock, half shy and half afraid of what he might hear, “you still – do you – have you forgiven me?”

Sherlock’s head turned towards John. His eyes were sad and hopeful. “Of course, John, I – yes.”

“There you are.” John sat up, feeling the pull of stiff muscles from his long sleep. He leaned over to Sherlock and reached into his breast pocket, pulling out his phone. Sherlock didn’t move, but his eyes followed John’s movement. “This means more to me than anything else, Sherlock,” he said, turning his phone to show Sherlock the words he had typed:

          I WILL FIX THIS. I PROMISE.

“That’s more important to me. You fixing it. Because you always do.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and John felt the air shift. Sherlock’s body lost some more of its tension, and he seemed easier, more open, turning towards John. John cleared his throat. “Now. I am still an English male over the age of twenty-five, and therefore don’t wish to talk about my feelings any more right now. Will you get over here please?”

Sherlock obeyed reluctantly, holding himself stiffly even as he lay down next to John. John tried to arrange Sherlock’s head on his shoulder, but it was a bit like trying to cuddle with a mannequin. He pulled Sherlock close, willing the warmth of his body to melt Sherlock’s guilt and self-directed anger.

“Having said all that, however,” he said into Sherlock’s hair, “I am trying to figure out how to convince you to keep lids on your experiments in the icebox while I still get to kiss you.”

Sherlock snorted and all at once relaxed in John’s arms. Now, suddenly, finally, it felt natural and right to be tangled up together.

“I think… both are compatible,” Sherlock said at last.

“Right. Good.”

They lay in silence for a time, and John learned how soft Sherlock’s hair was between his fingers.

“John?”

“Mmm?”

“What was it like? The telepathy?”

John considered for a moment. “Like a voice directly in my ear, very quiet but clear. It was disorientating at first, then it was quite interesting. Finding out what the difference was between what people thought and what they actually said out loud.”

“Do you miss it? Would you want it back?”

“Nope. It was too much, at the end. Though it gave me a bit of insight into what your amazing brain is like, and I’m still grateful for that.”

Sherlock was silent for a while, then said quietly, “That’s good. I liked… you knowing. It made it – makes it – easier.”

John felt a grin spreading across his face. He nuzzled into Sherlock’s hair and whispered, “You know, I think I can still read your mind a bit.”

“Really? Are you-”

“For instance, right now you’re thinking about how much you liked the kissing.”

John could swear he could feel Sherlock blush, feel the rush of heat into his cheeks. “Ah. Well. Yes, I suppose I did.”

“And you liked me touching you.”

Very quiet, very low, “Yes.”

“And right now you’re thinking that you’d like to do that some more, but you’re not sure if I’m physically well enough yet.”

“I-”

“No worries there, I’m fine. And you’re also thinking that you’d like to try some things that you’ve only heard about. Like… oral sex?”

Sherlock gasped, and John smiled.

“That’s what I thought. And you’re thinking that you’d like to have a shower, because it’s been more than six hours since you last bathed. And maybe you’re thinking that you’d like to find out if we can both fit in the shower together.”

John felt a deep chuckle reverberate up from Sherlock’s stomach and bubble out from his mouth. “Yes, that was _exactly_ what I was thinking, John.”

“And then Chinese takeaway.”

“Close. Thai.”

“So close.”

Sherlock pushed himself up to face John. His eyes were sparkling. “You’re missing the most important thought I’m having, John.”

“What’s that, love?”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m thinking – _now_.”

_END_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big ole shout out to Passion of the Nerd's YouTube analysis of BtVS's episode Earshot (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r-_lRkGQyWc&list=PLQ-lwpabT36mJ2ouOJlMS4FM-PC-P8_L2&index=18) If you're a Buffy fan, do check the series out; they're very insightful.
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who followed this story, for your comments, and your kudos. You are the lifeline to fic writers.


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